


St. Bartholomew's Home for Unwanted Boys

by Fyliwion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Foster Care, Foster home, Gen, Growing Up Together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Watson is a Saint, Kidlock, M/M, Orphan AU, Orphans, PTSD, Sherlock is a Brat, Slow Burn, Teenlock, They have to grow up first, really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4306545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At age eight, John Watson loses his family and is moved to a foster home for troubled children.</p><p>At age nine, he meets Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting of the Twain

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this idea for ages (and started writing it probably two years ago by hand). After sitting down and hammering out the first several chapters, I'm giving in and posting. 
> 
> Updates should be weekly! Ratings and tags will change and go up as the story progresses.

John Watson knew, with every certainty, he would be adopted.

He had read enough stories to know what families wanted in their adopted children. From all appearances, he would was a perfect fit for a long-term foster family. 

The car had made a soft murmuring sound as it drove away from his family home. The two bags in the back of the truck barely holding half of the items he wanted to take, but his hands and mind shaking too much to properly pack much beyond a few clothes and books. 

A few of his father's things hastily put at the bottom, hidden from view. 

It was sunny when he left. The day too bright and surreal for the dread that welled up within his stomach as he felt the motor beneath him. He was thankful for the small things, thankful the social worker behind the wheel refrained from speaking, thankful he got to pack himself, thankful he'd gotten anything at all. 

He kept his hands tight in a fist in his lap, and eyes straight ahead. 

No use turning around. 

He sat in the car, watching his life leave him in the rear window, and knew without a doubt he'd find a new home, new parents, and someone else ready to take a charity case. 

John was a quiet, studious boy that had come from a good middle class home. He was a wholesome looking child with sun-gold hair, sharp  blue eyes, and a healthy tan from years of  playing outside.

The accident that had killed his family left him mercifully un-marred, except for a scar over his left shoulder hidden beneath layers of clothing.

If he was, perhaps, unusually quiet for his eight years it only meant he was unlikely to be a bother.

It was not like the families were not aware of his extenuating circumstances. Too, they knew of his counselling and trauma suffered from the accident. But people were funny that way, and how easily those attributes turned into sympathetic charity. His outward appearance and smart conversation only cinched the deal.

How could he explain to the strangers that the blood was everywhere?

Sharp, red, and metallic, it swirled around his tongue and filled his mouth within his dreams.

The smell of smoke, burnt rubber, the strange stink of death that comes just before before he could open his eyes to look upon the carnage.

It was there every time John closed his eyes. It was there during the waking hours when he blinked.

Bloody faces with unseeing gazes just behind his eyelids.

And at night there was no escaping it.

John fought it, at first he refused to sleep and fought against the encroaching darkness. The foster homes understood such fears from a child with his circumstances after all.

Even adults would have such nightmares from the horror he had witnessed.

Eventually he would succumb to the sweet death of slumber. His eyes would flutter shut, and awaiting him were the screams, the blood.  There were his parents staring back at him unseeing. There was his sister, her neck at an unnatural angle, who would not wake no matter how he called her name.

His own screams ripped through his throat. His fists lashed out to whatever or whoever dared come close. His own body rejecting his mind and heart in entirety. An un-seeable, un-catchable disease that had slipped with his parent's death and no amount of light could vanquish. 

He never caused a fuss when the families inevitably returned him. When they decided he wasn't worth the effort. When they realized just how damaged a child they had gotten.

But there was nothing he could do during the nights he screamed through. _(All of them)._

Nor could he help a limp that grew worse each day. _(Psychosomatic the adults called it)._

An arm that needed constant therapy . _(Years at least)._

And unnerving silence. _(Ruined beyond fixing)._

Troubled children were simply not wanted; so John learned, even in a society that shied away from terms such as “orphans” and “orphanage.”

His appearance made him an easy choice for fostering.

The truth meant he would never find a permanent home.

 

A year after the accident that took his family, John Watson found himself at Saint Bartholomew’s Home for Boys.

It was another car ride, another long stretch of road that lead somewhere this time, and with little promise of respite. 

There had been many car rides since then, each one as horrid as the next. His stomach churned at the whirring sound of the motor, and the cars that passed against the metal frame. There was the twists and turns of the road, and more than once John wondered how long before the luck that saved his life ended. 

Or perhaps the curse. 

The other homes had been usual houses and bungalows. There had been a flat in London he'd liked, but too small for a screaming child. The other houses had been too big, too foreign. 

He watched the new one grow closer. The red brick, darkened to brown, the sun glinting off windows that were decorated with thin metal grids, a brass metal sign that seemed a remnant of a different time entirely. 

A children's home for those fosters that couldn't find a long-term residence or didn't take to fostering. A halfway house of sorts, for those who needed a more stable environment.

A word no one would use.  

An orphanage.

The teachers and civil workers onsite worked to make it as welcoming as they could. The walls were brightly coloured with boards and décor. There was a library, playrooms, study halls, and computer rooms for the children. In many ways, it was more of a glorified boarding school than a modern orphanage.

There was an onsite library, a laboratory that held child friendly experiments, and an outdoor sporting area.

Dormitories held no more than two to a room.

No more than sixteen to eighteen boys were ever there at a time.

It was hateful.

The empty bed across from John told him everything he needed to know about what they thought of him.

A monotonous, emotionless room with white walls.

An unhealed limp and a lady who spoke to him once a week without ever listening?

John Watson: Unwanted before his tenth birthday.

His father had been a soldier, and when John Watson turned nine he decided he could be one too.

 

John caught his first look at the boy slipping through the halls from his way out of therapy.

It was the the woman with the child that caught his attention first. Well- dressed and overtly posh, she was screaming over the head of the young boy to the nearest social worker.

“Liar!"

"My Husband…."

"Not having....affair!”

He caught a handful of words between the woman's sobs and yells. It would have been impossible not to with the raucous she had been making. It would not be the first time he saw a prospective parent raising a fuss, though she was perhaps the most alarming he'd had the opportunity for a gleam at.    

John began to creep away, carefully so that no one saw him, but a sudden shout of “devil spawn" kept him at bay.   

The child stood firmly in place, holding his bag with a clenched fist and the tightness about his lips.

The boy was impossibly small, a cursory glance would place him at five or six. He was pale as porcelain, a striking contrast to the mop of unruly black hair that hung thick over his eyes. The curls were matted and unkempt, but with his complexion they made the child look like a waif from a Dickens' novel.

Behind the fragile exterior, intelligent eyes took in every inch of his surrounding. There was a hint of defiance that John suspected many prospective parents took as a challenge of _“needs a bit of proper love, the poor dear."_

It was all in the tilt of the child's head. Evident in the way he stood as the woman's yells lifted, and refused to be moved. The firm set his lips made in contrast to her wild exclamations.

This had not been his first family.

Nor would it be his last.

The families John had stayed with tended to be more sympathetic,  regretful when it failed to work out between them. They made it a point to assure John it was not him, never him, but the circumstances were simply too much out of their control. 

Most of them at least. Other's were too ashamed at their actions to be bothered with sentiment. Instead, a worker would come to fetch him, and a half a dozen words might be passed between before his bags were packed in the hall and he was off again. 

Still, he'd never been called devil's spawn.

As John watched the strange dance between the social worker, child, and foster parent finish unfolding, he couldn't help but think the woman must be a little mad.

The child's gaze might be burning with intelligence, but how much trouble could such a small child be?

John rather suspected he could hold him up in one hand, and even if the boy's eyes were calculating surely it meant he could be reasoned with. 

No one wanted to move a dozen times in a year after all. 

Not if you didn't have to. 

“John.”

John jumped at the sound of his name, and turned to find the portly house master, Michael Stamford, leaning down behind him.

John liked Mr. Stamford, or more than the other caretakers at least. The man was friendly, if occasionally bumbling, and spoke to him like he was an adult and not an especially thick idiot. His rotund appearance was little barrier in keeping up with the children, and he would often talk about his own days playing rugby before he'd shifted to teaching. His face was an open book much of the time, and it was evident he enjoyed what he did, which was a far cry from many of the volunteers who came and went as quickly as the seasons. 

“Do you have a moment so I could speak with you?”

“Yes Mr. Stamford,” dread filled John's voice.

Caught spying.

Mr. Stamford was the one man who John wished to make a good impression with, and here John was giving them one more reason to see  _why_ he would never fit in a proper home.

He man chuckled when he caught sight of John's face.

“No need to worry Watson,” said the man ruffled John's hair, distracting him from his thoughts of doom.

“You’re not in trouble. While I don't condone you spying on our newest resident, I admit the lady was creating quite a scene. A bit louder and I dare-say the entire Home could hear her. I’ll overlook it this time.”

He gave John a wink.

“Although, the subject isn't entirely removed from what I wish to discuss with you.”

John shifted slightly under the man’s scrutiny, “Sir?”

Stamford was lead them to an empty room and had John sit next to him.

“I’ve spoken with Ella and she says your nightmares have been getting better. Yes?”

John swallowed and gave a firm nod.

“Yes sir.”

“Yes well, you’re an understanding lad. One of our best and brightest I dare say. And… well our new boy is intelligent as well. Too intelligent I should think. He was here before, briefly, before you came to us.” He coughed slightly. “And well, he found it a bit- difficult.”

Stamford fiddled with his tie.

“Yes sir?” John didn’t quite understand where this was going. Did Stamford want him to befriend the boy he'd seen then? He could, although the boy was a few years his junior.

“I had hoped we might be able to have him room with you.”

The strangled sound flew from John’s throat before he could fully process the request.

It wasn't the company he despised but-“

Sir! Sir… I…”

“Now listen John. He’s known for sleeping irregularly, so if you were to have nightmares it shouldn't be a problem. I am aware of your habits but Sherlock is… well a bit of an odd duck. You’re a good boy and I can trust you to do the right thing by the lad. I will, of course, let him know about your own situation, but I suspect it won’t be a problem.” He flashed the boy a smile and Watson’s stomach dropped.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew the house only had so many rooms and they couldn't accommodate two younger boys having their own for use. Even if it wasn't today then there was always the possibility of tomorrow. It went unspoken that eventually someone would take the bed across from him.

_“Devil Spawn!”_

The woman's words ran through his head.

Perhaps it would make the four white walls less tedious.

“I can try sir,” he said head dropping and his left hand trembling just slightly.

“Good lad, Watson. Good lad.”

 

When John walked into his room, the boy was laying on top of his bed with his fingers pencilled under his chin.

Initially, the child looked so statuesque it reminded John of the figures he'd seen on the tops of sarcophagus at the British Museum. 

John had never seen anyone so still, except for the occasional flutter of an eyelash, he might not have been breathing at all.

A minute or two passed and the boy’s eyes flickered as John moved towards his bed.

John turned his head, to find the boy watching him. He seemed to be taking John in from head to toe before speaking.

“Just turned nine years old. Parents died in a car accident, traumatic, injury to your left shoulder causing movement problems and intense scarring. Should heal completely given age at the time of the accident. You have a limp, not caused by a real injury, but rather entirely in your head given the circumstances. Still exhibiting night terrors and disturbances due to the same, and the occasional wetting of the bed as well. Friendly. Easy going, but prone to quiet periods that most of the adults find disturbing. Worried this could be a sign of a bit of a temper, and they would be right. Combined with your problems and constant therapy for both arm and emotional turmoil unlikely to be adopted. You've given up, the adults here hope they might find you something before you reach puberty. Possible but unlikely. Quiet, studious, and possibly less idiotic given your choice of readings… Although given the way your mouth is hanging open?”

He paused with a broad smirk.

"Unlikely.”

John’s fist automatically tightened at his side. His spine straighten while he kept his eyes wide to keep his emotions at bay. There was no way he would let this child see him cry. A child who sounded like an adult, and had a vocabulary most other children John's age didn't even have.

“Mr. Stamford told you about me.”

The words were spate out through gritted teeth, and it was all he could do to keep himself from darting towards the door to yell at the man for telling. His fist tightened on the bed that crinkled from the protective covering on the mattress below.

A constant reminder of his failures.

“Don’t be silly. That would be a breach of con- confidence,” said the boy rolling his eyes, and a slight stumble over the last word. It was the first hint John had that, perhaps, the boy wasn't quite as old for his age as he'd like others to believe.

“But… you-“ John could barely make out tangible words, it was an effort to recover from the shock of having the last year laid out for him.

“Did… did you steal my file?”

It didn't make sense, how could another boy get the information? When would the boy have time? 

“Wrong. I observed. It’s easy, but somehow even most adults fail spectacularly at it.”

The boy hadn’t so much as shifted from the pyre that he had created for himself on the bed.

“I…” his fist loosened and he frowned, “I… don’t understand.”

A small huff of distaste. The boy looked put upon, but there was a glint in his eyes.

“Your bedroom is stark, bare, but you've been here some time. You are pleasant looking, blond, and well put together—your personality obviously non-combative which is why the caretakers would place me in your room. Why then not not transferred to foster care? Traumatizing events causing your status an on orphan—a bed protector implying the possibility you've wet the bed on more than one occasion although not recently. Not due to bladder problems, nightmares then. Better however, but you’ll still likely scream, a risk they took given the complaints they received that I have a tendency to fail to sleep much. You have a limp, obvious the moment you stepped in, but you are wearing shorts- ergo I can see you have no cause for a limp from your legs. Where then? Left shoulder, your hand was grasp in a fist in a show to keep it from trembling, yet it hasn’t been trembling at all since I came in the room. They believe extensive nerve damage—not untrue but not as bad as the placebo they’ve now caused you to believe. Your pile of books tells me studious and also says you're willing to be quiet at times. Your build tells most prospective parents they would not think that the case. Thus you are here, with trauma and a make believe limp you can’t shake.”

He rolled over to look at him with a slight smile.

“Did I miss anything?

John stared at Sherlock as though he'd grown a second head.

“The crash?”

He huffed and shrugged his shoulders “Lucky guess.”

It was all John could do not to gape openly at the other boy. He’d never seen anything of the like, the ability for someone to read him so completely. Even the adults didn’t know everything and this kid simply read him the moment he opened the door. “That’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“You're sure you're not a wizard?” He moved to sit next down to him.

The boy shifted a bit, the pout on his lip returning as he looked at him warily.

“You're making fun of me.”

Odd. John watched as the boy didn’t quite meet his eyes and seemed to clam up at the idea. He was so tiny, and after all the big words and attitude he’d forgotten the kid was still a couple years younger than himself. He was hiding under the matted curls and John shook his head vehemently.

“I’m really not. I’m amazed. I’ve never seen someone do that before- seriously you could almost be Harry Potter, especially with that hair.”

He flicked a strand that had escaped.

“Really?”

John laughed at the scepticism on his face.

“Yes. Really.”

“Oh.”

The child looked so confused, so young at that moment. All the walls he had up just dropped, and John reached out a hand between them.

“Maybe we can try this again- you know- since we're going to be sharing a room and all. John Watson.”

The boys eyes flickered over the hand and then Johns face. After a long moment he nodded, taking the hand and his face lighting up.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes?”

John admitted it took all he could not to laugh at the boy’s name, but seeing the defence in the boy’s eyes he kept a straight face.

“Problem?”

John shook his head, “Nope. Just… different.”

Sherlock looked wary for a moment.

“I like it. Sherlock. Sounds posh yeah? Fits you. Goes with the whole Oliver Twist persona you’ve apparently made for yourself.”

Sherlock smiled back.

“Caught that did you?”

“Worked pretty well with the social workers.”

Sherlock laughed, the first easy laughter John heard from him. He looked softer, almost nice as the smile broke across his face. There was a hint of a wall breaking down between them, one that John hadn't noticed was even there. He wondered how long Sherlock had been in the system to be so young and already so wary. 

Sherlock leaned back watching John with bright eager eyes.  

“Now... Who is this Harry Potter?”

No. Not boring at all.


	2. Casting off from the Straight and Narrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not quite devil spawn, but definitely trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit early! I can't promise every week, but given I'll be out and about all day tomorrow thought it would be safer up now than being late. Thank you for all the comments and support thus far.

Devil Spawn?

Perhaps not.

But John Watson learned quickly that whatever he had to look forward to with his new bed mate, monotony would play no part of it.

Sherlock was a constant whirlwind. Every moment was filled with some new fact or subject that he had dug up from books and file John had never heard of. Anything and everything was up for his attention, and nothing was sacred concerning his quest for whatever piece of inane knowledge he decided to accrue.

John loved it.

He would watch the boy pour over books far beyond their years and studies. Thick books with titles that would put John to sleep, but inevitably have him reading aloud for the other boy. Not because Sherlock couldn’t (or so he said), but the boy claimed that an audible source helped to process the subjects.

John found it impossible to refuse Sherlock anything.

And Sherlock rarely asked for help, loathed the idea that he might not manage by himself, and only John held the honour of assisting without asking.

He’d learned quickly not to ask. Not unless he wished to be flayed by Sherlock’s quick wit and sharp tongue.  

Today was another story.

It had been a long day, with the pouring rain continuing from it’s unabated attack upon London. The clouds rolled past the window, darkening the hall except for the occasionally flash in the distance. Upon the window panes echoed the relentless tapping of water battering to come in.

They hadn’t been allowed outside since the neverending storms had rolled in, and the weather was beginning to take it’s toll on everyone.

Excluding the only child in the facility who could possibly take a thunderstorm over a beautiful afternoon.

John returned from class to find maps sprawled over ever inch of their room. Floor, bed, walls- every space was covered in various maps of the oceans and countries-- with varying marks that vined through them.

There was even a compass rose pinned to the ceiling over Sherlock’s bed, the corner’s falling downward, as though pleading to be set free.

They were all ages, all sizes, some printed from the computer lab, some quite obviously ripped from books. There were at least two John seemed to recognize from a history classroom, and one from Mrs. Hunter’s classroom given the rather recognizable neon blue stain in the corner.

Of course that would be the one pinned behind John’s bed.  

The boy was hovering over one map in the corner showing no sign that he had heard John enter.

“Sherlock?”

Still no response. Indeed, Sherlock refused to deign a glance his way, and instead continued to stare intently at the map below him.

“...What is all this?” John attempted to tiptoe around the areas not currently covered in diagrams, but the sheer quantity made it impossible. There were books piled up as well, and most of his bed had been commandeered as an acting bookstand.

Still no response. John gave up and tipped his own bag of things with a loud thump and finally creating some response as the boy fell back. The glare turned upon John was so fierce, for a moment he debated turning back through the door and finding somewhere else to crash for the remainder of the day.

Except, he might come back find his bed entirely dismantled and turned into a posting board knowing Sherlock.

In actuality, he would bet on it.

“John!”

Sherlock waved a hand towards the bag, where it had crumpled the corner of one of the maps that was acting as a current coverlet.

“Sherlock what is this mess?”

John reached down to pick up one of the maps, before finding it ripped from his fingers.

“I'm setting up our i-ti-na-rary.”

“Itinerary?”

“Yes. That's what I said. itinerary,” Sherlock confirmed with a nod of his head. “For when we steal a ship.”

It was beginning to make less and less sense to John. Usually what occurred when Sherlock ended up with some madcap idea.

“...steal a ship?”

Sherlock scowled, the look implying John was being particularly thick. Ridiculous given he’d just implied they should steal a ship, when John rather thought the boy could barely reach the top set of drawers of his dresser.

“John you know I detest repeating myself.”

“Yeah… well I’m missing something here I think.”

The eyeroll Sherlock responded with could not have been more dramatic.

“To become pirates.”

That caught John's attention, and he carefully maneuvered his things away from the boy's maps. He tip toed along one to look at the marks placed over it and raised an eyebrow.

“Pirates.”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock....” for a child as logical as his dormitory mate, it never ceased to amaze John how he could be completely fantastical at times.

Within the first month of their meeting, Sherlock had soared through the Harry Potter collection. Never mind his age, or the continuous questions he had for John, (many that John couldn't really explain either), he went through them with such ferocity that John was left in awe.

And then came the months following, where Sherlock proceeded to work night and day to discover the scientific proof that magic existed.

No matter how many times, how many anecdotes, John could say nothing that would thwart the boys attempts.

There had been potion attempts.

A mandrake-hybrid that only just kept them from being poisoned.

Divination.

The wreckage to their room had been astronomical.

Blue and green potions staining the carpet. Writing on the walls. Books tossed every which way. Diagrams written up in something that looked suspiciously like blood.

Then the day he’d entered to find a collection of lizard tails that Sherlock was attempting to harvest John had nearly lost it. It took the better part of an hour to explain that a lizard tail was not going to work as a substitute as a newt.

It took another hour to explain that no, they would not be catching newts.

Eventually, Sherlock came to the conclusion without further facilities and access there would be no immediate way to complete the experiment. John had spent the better part of a week helping him file his materials and talk Sherlock into waiting until they had the money and resources to further their investigation.

(That and an incident on Bart's roof only just got them away from being locked up perpetually on the part of the staff who had found them, and nearly gave John a heart attack. Never mind the amount of time John had spent trying to explain to Sherlock why a broomstick was not aeronautical.)

So the magic was put aside and new obsessions grew in their place.

And now… pirates.

“Don't say it John. I know pirates aren't common anymore. But that doesn't mean we can't be them! Do you know how much of the world is covered in water? Seventy-one percent! Out of that there are four main oceans, over a hundred seas, and at least Five hundred million miles of open waterways. Even with satellite and technology, if we got a very small ship and took off, they could never catch us. Further more, there are at least one-hundred and fifty countries touching water with at least half of them providing safety to British fugitives.”

“Sherlock you're making that up.”

He looked hurt.

“No I'm not.”

“You can't know all that.”

“I've been studying. I've also figured out the best routes to get there.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“But right.”

John rolled his eyes but knew better to argue. Inevitably the boy would prove him wrong, and he didn't know the first thing about oceans or sailing. Even if Sherlock was incorrect in his facts, it was unlikely he could prove it.

Once Sherlock got an idea in his head it was impossible to move him.

“I don't suppose we might relocate your map since some of us have our studies to brush up on?”

John reached across trying to carefully shift one of the maps on his side so he could start to pull through his books. He could see Sherlock giving him an evil eye.

“Really John, you'll be my first mate. You needn't bother with those stupid subjects they're making us look at now. I picked you up a book on sailing you should start on instead.”

Indeed, John only now saw a tome sitting on his bedside table.

“You realize you'll have to learn the solar system if your sailing Sherlock?” His lips curled up at the boys perplexed face, “Sailors use stars and their constellations to navigate.”

The boy's face dropped slightly, “Constellations?”

He'd got him. Moving the map he reached for his current book on space and opened it up to the most recent lesson. Sherlock hated anything to do with the usual lessons, but perhaps this might be a hook.

“Come up and I'll explain.”

There was a moment where Sherlock looked torn. John knew he hated to leave a current experiment, but if he didn't distract him there was no way either of them were getting any rest. It was likely after they finished the lesson he'd go back to the maps, but maybe he could wear him down in the meantime.

“Fine,” Sherlock crawled onto the bed next to John and slipped under the boys arm to look at the pictures. “Tell me about constellations.”

John shifted to make it easier for Sherlock to curl up next to him. For a moment, memories of Harry fluttered through him, the times he would crawl onto her lap as she'd go over her books and studies he couldn't begin to understand. Sometimes, if she was in a good mood, she'd read to him-- all wisdom and knowledge for her three year difference.

He'd just grown too old for such silliness when the accident had happened.

Now he found an undersized boy settled in his own lap. The warmth of his back pressed to his chest, and the still improbable mass of curls tickling John’s nose. Sherlock’s breathing settled into an easier pattern as John began going over the North Star and the patterns found directly around it.  

The boy would fall asleep soon if John was lucky. He’d barely rested since the storms had started, too busy coming up with a new subject to study. John could feel him shift to grow more comfortable, two arms slipping around his stomach, and the ridiculous lashes fluttering shut against Sherlock’s will.

Looking down at the boy, John wondered if Sherlock ever remembered a family whose lap he could crawl into or cuddle with. He'd been at the agency for at least a year or two before John had come, but his speech and mannerism made John think he must have had a rather well-to-do family before coming there.

Sherlock never spoke of it.

John didn't ask.

 

It took almost three months from when Sherlock moved in for John to realize his limp was gone.

Another three and the nightmares faded as well.

In their place he’d fight back dark wizards and set sail on the seven seas.

Sherlock always at his side.

 

“Please John?”

“Death Sherlock” he said firmly. “They will behead us and place our heads on spikes as a warning to the other curious kids.”

Of course, only Sherlock could find that imagery even more appealing. The child was masochistic when it came to punishment.

“John it's our only chance!”

The wheedling was taking it's toll. Sherlock knew the exact way to crawl under your skin and force you into saying yes whether you wished to or not, and never mind the consequences. Because God knew, if Sherlock was going down, John would fall with him.

John supposed it was a blessing they'd only been caught once so far.

After the map incident the boy had started up star charts, then there were the weeks spent on shipbuilding and maintenance. At any moment, John had expected the boy to find a new hobby, but for whatever reason Sherlock was still dead set on piracy.

Now that the books had dried up, John saw the bigger problem associated with Sherlock’s current past time.

London was a harbor town.

“The Gloria Scott will be here next summer as well Sherlock. We’ve only just gotten out of discipline, are you so eager to get back into books?”

He tried to put on his best mask of disapproval.

It never worked.

“But John I figured it out!”

How Sherlock could widen his eyes, give that slightly innocent (entirely fake) pout, and build a collection of tears in his eyes, John would never know.

“It would be easy. Fool proof even, and Stamford would never realize we’ve even left. I even created an alibi this time.”

“Did you?”

“Indeed.”

“Care to share?”

John tapped his foot, refusing to be swayed. He got into enough trouble without being dragged into one of Sherlock's hairbrain schemes. Again.

Sherlock glared back, rather pointedly implying John was an idiot.

“And compromise our situation? No.”

It was wrong. John knew it was wrong. There was no way they could get away with it, but the look on Sherlock's face.

Whoever taught the boy to cry on command should be shot.

“We are going to be skinned alive you know.”

John reached for his jacket as Sherlock's tears dried up, and the boy gave a whoop. At least that was promising, it meant Sherlock hadn't been entirely certain John would give in.

Probably wouldn't work a second time.

Sherlock grabbed for his slightly worn long coat (Also slightly too big, but Sherlock claimed it made him look like a pirate.)

“You're wrong,” said Sherlock heading for the door.

“Doubtful. It's going to take a miracle. I hope this is worth it.”

“It is.”

John was forced to admit that it was strangely easy to escape the building. John found Stamford and gave their excuses for their afternoon activities. Sherlock hid around the corner as he fumbled on about Sherlock wanting to walk out in the park, and suffering from a lack of fresh air. By some miracle they were out the door without even a glance their way.

Probably glad to have Sherlock out of their hair.

Probably a blessing they still thought John responsible.

So long as John kept an eye on the time, and made sure to get them back before evening call there was no reason to think they'd be missed.

While he hated to admitted, perhaps Sherlock had a point. They might be able to get away with it after all.

He did manage to put his foot down when Sherlock wanted to hail a cab. Neither of them had the funds, even if Sherlock thought otherwise, and John would leave such an obvious trail. It would be odd enough for two children to be travelling on the underground, but John knew how to walk with a purpose and Sherlock was hardly your average seven year old.

The entire trip John kept a firm hold on Sherlock's hand, and a constant fear that at any moment a bobby would stroll over and question them. Indeed, by the time they reached the North Greenwich Station he was half ready to turn around and call it a day.

“Don't be silly John. We're here.”

It was worth it.

Stepping out of the underground he turned towards the water, and could see white sails billowing at the end of the street. The smell of fresh water, and a breeze that threatened to take Sherlock with it left John feeling giddy.

The boy was nearly bouncing next to him, and John squeezed his hands looking down.

“Can you see her?”

Sherlock shook his head, his frown deepening as a bus drove past them, further blocking their view. Sometimes John forgot Sherlock was still a child.

In a swift movement, John lifted Sherlock onto his shoulders before he could make a move to resist, and immediately was greeted with a cry of delight.

“She's beautiful John!”

There was a sense of awe in the boy’s voice that he’d never heard before. For the first time in hours Sherlock grew silent at the majesty.

He tugged on the ends of John's hair trying to spur him along.

The Gloria Scott was undeniably magnificent.

The minute they reached the ship Sherlock was spouting out facts and deductions John could never have followed. He supposed they were all things the boy felt necessary to pursue his quest in piracy.

John had to laugh that Sherlock could name every part of a ship he'd never laid eyes on, yet still had trouble with his long division.

John carefully counted out ten pounds to the gate keeper, thankful that he looked older than his age. (Sherlock still looked about five). It had been months saving up allowances and pennies they’d been given from charities to meet the fee. Indeed, as the carefully saved quid was handed over, he felt a pang at the loss of so many months of savings.

But the look on Sherlock’s face seemed well worth it.

Two hours later, John was still speculating the worth as they found themselves being escorted home by two rather surely officers.

John was sporting a spectacular bruise, Sherlock missing his best boot, and both of them waterlogged from an unexpected swim in the Thames.

For someone the size of an oversized doll, Sherlock's ability to invoke trouble was remarkable.

Detention for two weeks, John relegated to extra therapy sessions for fighting, and both of them threatened with every sort of penalty for attempting to runaway.

Nevermind they never meant to runaway, but Sherlock calling the guardian an idiot and deducing why they hadn't been (left their things, no packed bags, the rest of their quid hidden in the left floorboard), only added three more days to their sentence.

It also left John fighting back laughter the entire walk back to their room, Stamford leading them along with a serious look on his face, and like two prisoners being led to gaul.

“We’re in trouble Sherlock we can’t- I'm serious. We can't giggle over detention.”

“But he was three times your size!”

“Yes and you were the one who decided he was commandeering the ship!”

“How should I have known he was the son of the man who owned it?”

John broke as peals of laughter poured from his lips. A moment later Sherlock followed suit.

Stamford tossed up his arms with a groan slamming the door shut behind them and turning the lock.

“John?”

Sherlock looked back up as he began to catch his breath.

“Yes Sherlock?”

“Brilliant.”

 

 


	3. Partings Welded Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How quickly loyalty and family can be created from friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In compensation for being a day early last week-- I'm two days late. Please forgive. Work was chaotic and I haven't really had internet the last four days.

Three new books from the inter-library collection had arrived for Sherlock, and John had excused himself between classes to fetch them for the boy. It was a beautiful day to escape outside, and it meant time to himself, a precious commodity at Bart's.

Especially when you roomed with Sherlock Holmes.

He’d taken his time walking with his collection, and enjoying a soft breeze and sunlight on his cheeks. These days it seemed too rare, a chance to keep his thoughts to himself, and enjoy London like any of its other denizens.

He was on his way back, when a coil of rope caught his eyes used but clean. It had obviously been forgotten or abandoned on the deserted intersection. At almost five metres, it had been a pain to hide it in his bag, but Sherlock had been working on knots of late and he'd been complaining about the differentials of width and how it affected the hold.

John wasn't sure what Sherlock meant by “proper width”, but the rope was far closer to that of ship rigging then their slowly dwindling supply of shoelaces.

It wasn't exactly a proper present, but he figured it would do to celebrate a year of rooming together.

“Sherlock! You won't believe what I-”

The drawers were open and empty, the floor clean from the knot categorizing, and the walls bare of the articles and maps that had been pinned into a wallpaper montage.

Two sets of luggage sat at the foot of Sherlock's bed, as well as a small bag on the stripped mattress.

John's hand froze on the door.

“I'm being fostered.”

John swerved to see Sherlock standing in the hall. He was staring at his feet, lips pursed, and face unreadable.

“Fostered?”

Dumb. Stupid. Sherlock hated it when John repeated himself.

Sherlock kept his eyes firmly on his feet, the nod he gave barely imperceptible.

“That's.... that's great,” John said, feeling his throat constrict as he forced the words out of his mouth.

It was horrid.

He didn't expect two small arms to wrap around him a moment later. Sherlock's head buried into his stomach as John could feel dampness seeping through his shirt. He was shaking in John’s arms and it sent a jolt of pain through him.

“Come with me.”

The words were muffled and John fought to keep his face still as he let his arms wrap around the boy tightly. Dammit. They weren't suppose to be adopted. They were suppose to be impossible to adopt. It wasn't fair.

“Sherlock...”

“I'll tell them I won't go if they won't take you too! I'll tell them we're brothers and our parents said we can't be separated. I-”

John pried him back and pulled Sherlock towards the bed, his arms still tight around the boy. “I'm happy for you Sherlock. I'm sure they're nice people, and you'll have a real home. Maybe you'll even get to go to a public school-- you're so smart. Imagine all the things you'll be learning.”

The boy rubbed his face glaring, “I don't want to go to a public school.”

John chuckled, “I thought you wanted to go to Eton?”

“I want to go where you go. I don't want a new family. I want you.”

John forgot sometimes how young the other boy was. So often he could outwit anyone or anything, and the endless amounts of knowledge made him forget that he was only just turning eight.

“We'll stay in touch. Maybe I'll get a home too and I can come visit yeah? I bet they'll be nice, and you'll get to take trips and send me postcards of exotic places.” Sherlock made at face at the idea causing John to laugh, “I mean think about it, you'll probably get a computer of your own.”

“I don't want my own computer.”

“No. You like to nick Stamford's.”

Sherlock curled into his lap, his breathing starting to steady once more. John wanted to punch something or someone, but wouldn't let Sherlock see. Couldn't. If the boy knew how upset he was he'd never agree to go, and it wasn't fair for John to be that selfish.

Sherlock deserved more than that.

It wasn't unsurprising that Sherlock would be adopted first.

John had wondered how long it would be before a family found him. Sherlock looked the idyllic orphan after all. His pale looks, dark curls, and wide blue eyes made him beautiful- and he was well-spoken even when petulant.

“Sherlock,” Stamford knocked on the doorframe. “Your new family is here.”

Sherlock’s hands tightened around John's middle.

“Don't let them take me,” he whispered angrily.

“You’ll be happy Sherlock Promise me.”

Sherlock scowled, “What's the point of making a promise I won't keep?”

He crawled away from John towards the door, refusing to look back. John could see him making fists as he grabbed his luggage and darted down the hall.

“John...” said Stamford, obviously torn from going after Sherlock or talking to John.

“I'll be fine Mr. Stamford. Go after him.”

It was several minutes later John walked to the main room and caught a glimpse of a pleasant looking couple picking up Sherlock's luggage. A wealthy family, well put together with friendly smiles and easy laughter as they took the boy's hands.

Sherlock tugged away, and then after a moment, reluctant allowed them.

John blinked away the blurriness in his eyes.

Allergies. Probably explained the nausea in his stomach as well.

 

The nightmares returned with a vengeance.

This time it was Sherlock in the seat next to him when the crash came.

 

Within a week the limp returned as well.

 

John had presumed it would be easy enough to keep in touch. There were phones after all, emails, and letter writing as a back up, although he hardly expected Sherlock to pick up a pen and paper.

Except a month went by and there was no note, no letters, no phone call.

He thought maybe it had just taken Sherlock time to settle in. Obviously he'd have to get use to his new family, and probably too busy to bother with John. Sherlock could go days on end without speak to him, so with a new family to get to know it made sense he might go off the map for a bit.

But after that first month John began to worry.

“Mr. Stamford?”

He waited until he knew the man was in a good mood. Sherlock use to be better at telling these things, the precise moment to ask for a favour, but some of the tells had rubbed off on John.

Today was a Friday and Stamford was humming when he wasn't aware anyone was listening. Hardly science, but enough that it should help his case.

“Yes John?”

John shifted under the man's gaze, “I uh... I haven't heard from Sherlock and well...” his throat clenched up. “I know he's bad at communicating. I thought maybe if I could send him a letter or....”

Stamford's face softened, and John hated the look of pity he found in the man's eyes. It reminded him after his parent's crash, the look that the officers gave him. The look that said nothing would ever be right again.

“Watson-”

Maybe Sherlock didn't want to talk to him anymore. No doubt he had made new friends, new company, and it wouldn't be right to be seen with a charity case at St. Bart's. Perhaps John had gotten it all wrong...

Stamford cleared his throat, “Sometimes new parents think it's for the best if their foster children move past their old life. I know it's not fair, but it can be easier for someone like Sherlock to adapt. I'm not saying I approve, but....”

“You think Sherlock doesn't want to write me.”

“Sherlock's always been a bit of a solitary sort.”

He was wrong. John should have heard something.

“Please sir,” he drew out the envelope he had written up earlier. “I... I just thought. If you know their address or talk to them I thought you could mail this. I just want to know he's doing alright.”

The man paused and then nodded taking the letter. “Alright. I don't see how that can hurt. You did get along with him better than the other's.”

“That's all I want sir.”

He placed a hand on John's shoulder. “You’re a good lad Watson. I'm sure you'll find a family yourself soon.”

Except he didn't need a family anymore, after all, his family was dead.

He just needed Sherlock.

  
  


Two more months passed.

Sherlock had truly cut ties with him. Still no word, no missive, nothing that implied he cared to speak with John. If Sherlock wished to communicate with him, he would do so. The silence was just a confirmation that communication between them was at an end.

He worried, constantly, and found himself no longer caring what he teachers and kids thought.

What was the point when no one seemed to stay?

And then came the note.

The email was curt and to the point. That was the whole of it, and not even a subject when John received it. He might have binned it before opening if he hadn't noticed the initials.

 

_Will be home so_ _on._

_SH_

 

He typed out several drafts before finally sending the final email. Long letters asking why Sherlock hadn't written him before. Letters asking what Sherlock had done to come back, what did he mean by home, and why now when there had been months of silence.

Explain?

The one letter stared back at him from the page as he clicked send.

Two days, three days passed and there was no response. No elaboration. Indeed, John began to wonder if it had been some elaborate hoax on Sherlock's part.

John began puzzling through the options. He’d reached out to Stamford, who tended to be the most sympathetic, but the man said he hadn’t heard anything about Sherlock returning. He thought about calling social services to investigate, the message had left a knot in his stomach, and the fear something had gone wrong left a taste in his mouth.

It was wrong—there must be something to the situation for that. What if something had happened to Sherlock? A week and then another and there was no further word.

It was the third Friday after the email. Thunderstorms rolled over the city, and rain washed through the streets leaving rivers in the wake of sidewalks. The thunder rolled in the early hours, and all through the day the lighting flashed white in the sky. They were trapped inside, poor will seeping through the residents at St. Bart's at the deluge released on London.

John let himself into his room, his own emotions wrapped in a blackness that seemed to have no end. His therapy session one of the worse since the note and no end to them in site.

He slipped inside, the lightning illuminating the room.

Sherlock was sitting in the darkness.

He was poised on his usual bed, a pallid tint to his skin, circles darker, and a slight frown on his face from where he had been staring firmly at the door.

John didn’t think.

John didn't ask why Sherlock had been sitting in the dark.

He didn't pause as he flew across to throw his arms around the boy.

Sherlock froze as John's arms wrapped around him. John felt a flash of confusion as he felt the boy wince at the tightness of the hug. Only then did he pause to contemplate the facts, to register that he could feel Sherlock's ribs, and his waiflike appearance was truth rather than an act.

Sherlock didn’t pull away immediately, but John could feel him freeze underneath him and heard the boy’s breath catch in the hug. He pulled away to get a better look, and the flicker of pain in Sherlock's eyes sent John's stomach plummeting further.

He tugged on Sherlock’s shirt before the boy could argue.

“Bloody hell. God. I'll... I'll-” the curses flew from his lips, dimly aware he’d actually apoken them aloud..

“John,” Sherlock's voice was soft, timid, tired in it's lilt.

“I’ll kill them” John said sharply. “I’ll hunt them down and make sure they--“

Sherlock tugged the shirt back over the bruises that scattered over his torso. Red, blue, purple mottled the skin with the occasional abrasion that had broken the skin and healed over. From around the edge of his shoulder there was a hint of red, remnants of lashed or a belt. A particularly long gash where metal had caught on the skin and left it's mark.

John shook with rage.

“It’s…. it’s dealt with John. They won’t do it to anyone else I promise.” Sherlock shook like a leaf under his gaze. He wrapped his arms right around him, and glanced up at John, “I was too fast for them to do much. It was only at night really, and even then you know I don't sleep much.”

“Sherlock...”

He went on like he hadn't heard. “They were involved in embezzlement, from the government as well as the husband's charity. The- I dropped a hint to the Yard, and when they came I made certain to speak with the detective alone.” His voice trembled just slightly. “I.. it was easy to prove the neglect charge. It seems the Yard is rather persuasive given the right evidence.”

“Sherlock-”

Sherlock pulled away unable to meet his eyes “It’s… fine.”

John was furious. For the first time he felt as though he truly could murder someone, and the hate rushed through him. His body quivered, and he clenched his fists to his side to keep from dragging Sherlock back into a hug and never let another soul touch the boy again.

“That’s it? It’s fine? Nothing about this is fine! Bloody hell, Sherlock you should’ve told me. Emailed me? Told me something so I could've helped! You’re intelligent, you could’ve gotten me a message somehow!”

The boy looked up sharply, “And what John? What would you have done? Told a teacher? A caretaker? Why would they have cause to believe? We’re troublemakers after all. Hardly wrong to give us a quick slap to the wrist. You would have gotten in trouble instead or they think it’s better we’re kept apart instead of together?” Sherlock made a face. “Wrong.”

“But…”

“Please…” he said a hint of a plea in his voice that caused John to break off.

“But-”

“I just… I want to delete it. Okay?”

John's face dropped, “Can you do that?”

Sherlock curled closer, burying his face in John's shirt and wrapping himself close to the other boy.

“I'm going to try.”

John paused and then, finally, wrapped his arms back around him. It was done- the authorities knew and Sherlock was home and hopefully the people who did it would go to jail.

It wasn't fine, but it would have to do.

“I don't like it,” John murmured into Sherlock's hair.

“Thank you.”

It was the thank you that worried him more than anything.

 

Now it was Sherlock's screams that kept him awake at night.

 

Sherlock was quieter after the incident, and his hobbies less intrusive. John missed it. Missed the mess, the loudness, but suddenly the boy would go without speaking for days on end. Both of them shared in the therapy sessions now, although John suspected Sherlock handled them worse than even he did.

He rarely slept anymore, and when he did he was just as likely to forsake his own bed to crawl next to John’s. They’d indulged occasionally, after a particularly bad set of nightmares, or perhaps a day that was for the worse.

Suddenly John found the small body tucked snugly against him, face buried into his shirt, and  curls tickling his nose.

The presence helped ease John’s own restlessness.

On those nights, Sherlock might even sleep through the night.

 

Nothing lasts forever.

 

“They're a good family, and they're looking forward to meeting you John.”

The look on Sherlock’s face the night he packed his bag.

The soft sobs that he could hear in the small hours of the morning when he thought him asleep?

The thought of what the other boy’s would do to him, once John could no longer protect him?

John hardly needed to fake it at all, but he knew leaving was no longer an option.

 

When he returned with a new limp, and new psych regimen, John smiled for the first time since he left less than a month before.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm looking for a Brit Picker if anyone is interested. I've done my best, but knowledge of British Kid slang and Foster Care is surprisingly hard to find. 
> 
> On that note: I've taken some liberties with current foster care and homes to work in the context of the story. I know the sort of set up I've depicted isn't really accurate any more, but it worked for the way the story will be moving.


End file.
